A Different Kind of Gala
by London Belle
Summary: The annual Holmes Gala is being held at the Holmes mansion, but this year, Mummy has demanded something different. (Sherlolly fluff) Rated T for language.
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft Holmes considers himself to be a man of patience, a man of compromise. He likes to think he is efficient, polite, and very good at handling difficult people, specifically a certain consulting detective. Mycroft believes he works hard and takes his occupation seriously, and today was no exception. He had dealt with painfully bossy politicians, annoyingly dense secretaries, and ridiculously unnecessary piles of paperwork, and he was more than ready to sit down at his desk and enjoy a brandy in five minutes of blessed silence.

Unfortunately, Mycroft Holmes' work is never done.

Just as the most powerful man in the hemisphere had accepted his brandy from his darling Anthea, his mobile rang. Upon seeing the identity of the caller, Mycroft groaned. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, letting the damned mobile continue on to the second ring before picking it up.

"Hello, Mummy." Anthea gave him a sympathetic look and set the entire bottle down on his desk before closing the door silently.

"Son," began Amelia Holmes, her voice brisk. "As I am sure you are aware, the annual Holmes Gala is fast approaching. You do remember when I gave you the date in September, correct? June 16th, Mycroft, write that down."

"Yes, Mummy, I remember," answered Mycroft.

"This year, I have decided that our party needed sprucing up a bit. Therefore, for the theme, we shall do an old-fashioned couples' ball, meaning each gentleman will need to bring a lady and vice versa. I want the ballroom used for this event, as the staircases are very necessary to present each individual guest. I'm putting you in charge of setting up the ball, Mycroft. Invitations, catering, decor, I leave it all to you. I shall be much too busy preparing the house for visitors and making the guest list to worry over such small matters."

Mycroft turned grey at the mention of a couples' ball, dreading the inevitable question. "Of course, Mummy. Will you require Sherlock's presence this year?"

"I thought that was implied. Neither of you are exempt from the theme, and I expect you both to attend with those impeccable manners I somehow managed to teach you. Now, I must see to it that your father and I make appointments to be fitted for our formal attire. Good day, Mycroft." Amelia hung up, leaving Mycroft in slight desperation. _John will obviously attend with Mary, so who shall Sherlock bring?_ he wondered. Fifteen minutes later, he had his answer.

**ooooo**

Sherlock was in the middle of a very intriguing (and quite possibly flammable, therefore even _more_ intriguing) chemical experiment when Mycroft called, meaning that the consulting detective was extremely annoyed and already disinterested when he answered his mobile.

"What is it now, Mycroft?" he snarled, slamming his goggles down onto the worn kitchen table.

Mycroft sighed. "Brother dear, Mummy has just called to inform me of this year's gala."

"I refuse to attend. The event proves to be pointless each and every year, and I will not stand around a clump of self-proclaimed intellectuals who never fail to aggravate me with their political nonsense."

"She has requested your presence this year."

If there's one thing Sherlock has learned over his (almost) four decades on this planet, it is that one does not argue with Mummy. Ever. Such foolish actions can prove to be catastrophic in consequence, and besides, he really hates when Mummy is upset. Plus, the detective secretly loves the occasional tuxedo (don't tell John, he already thinks his flatmate's head is big enough), and the possibility of looking as devastating as he does in front of hundreds? Well, Sherlock wouldn't miss that for the world.

"Fine, I'll consider it. Anything else you care to tell me, brother?"

"Yes, actually. Mummy has decided upon the theme of a couples' ball."

Sherlock eyes widened. "A _what?_"

"It would seem as if every gentleman attending must bring a lady as his partner."

"I'm not an idiot, Mycroft, I know what it means," snapped the detective. "What did Mummy say should I insist upon attending alone?"

"She specifically said you were not an exception. Honestly, brother dear, must we be dramatic about this, too? I think it's a lovely opportunity for you, personally." Mycroft smiled to himself.

"Oh, don't be obtuse, brother," Sherlock sneered. "You know as well as I do that the thought of me at a 'couples' ball' creates some rather horrid imagery."

"Sherlock," began Mycroft. "I believe you are failing to notice a very obvious solution to this entire debacle. A solution which, in fact, may prove to make the night much more enjoyable than you anticipate."

"Out with it, you bloody git, I haven't all day."

"Miss Hooper."

Sherlock froze, his eyes narrowed. "Mycroft," he warned, his voice low and menacing.

"Oh, come, Sherlock, don't be oblivious. She is, after all, one of the only female beings in London who could stand you for any length of time. Besides, I thought the idea of the pathologist in a formal ensemble might-"

"You bastard," Sherlock cut his brother off through clenched teeth. "You absolute bastard." Molly was _not_ the answer. Though the detective did enjoy the company of his pathologist, he could not even begin to fathom the difficulties involved in bringing her to a Holmes Gala. The grandeur of the mansion, being presented in front of hundreds of affluent millionaires (in formal attire, no less), having to act as Sherlock's _date_ - the list seemed to include everything that poor Molly would find terrifying and awkward. He could not - would not - watch her become so embarrassed and shy. And furthermore, that Mycroft would _dare_ to speak of his pathologist in that way...

"Brother, I despise it when you lie, particularly to yourself."

"No." Sherlock made a fist with his free hand.

"Sherlock, you do not have a say in this. Mummy is already in a strop over the entire event, and I would hate to inform her that her son, the _hostess' _son, is attending as a party of one. What will she tell the rest of the guests? The businessmen? Her social circle? Brother mine, I really must insist. If you do not take Miss Hooper, you will have to face the wrath of our mother."

"Mycroft, you bloody idiot-"

Mycroft sighed. "Just ask her, Sherlock." He hung up before Sherlock could utter the usual witty retort, leaving the detective staring into space in the tiny kitchen while a test tube of chemicals burst into flames behind him.

**ooooo**

_Thank you so much for reading! Updates will be frequent, as I am currently on Spring Break. Reviews are very much appreciated, especially critique - please be picky!_

_~London Belle_


	2. Chapter 2

Long after the chemicals had burnt themselves out, Sherlock paced back and forth across the sitting room floor. He tried to think of a proper way to ask Molly to the gala, but deleted each attempt after the first three words. _Why can't I think?_ thought the frustrated detective, snatching up his violin. He stood by the window of the flat and gazed down at Baker Street below, beginning to play a slow waltz. Two hours passed, and finally, Sherlock was so aggravated by his incapable mental processes that he flung the instrument down onto the couch, pulled on his coat and scarf with a huff, and left the flat.

As he barreled down Baker Street, Sherlock tried to clear his mind. He paid attention to the sounds nighttime London made, breathed in the smell of the pavement dampened by the recent rain. By the time he passed New Scotland Yard, the detective had conjured up a decent invitation, complete with etiquette and everything. Making up his complex mind, Sherlock set off for Saint Bart's, aware that his pathologist would be there even though it was hours past the end of her shift at the morgue.

Molly Hooper let out a heavy sigh that shook her tiny frame. After an impossibly endless day of corpses and organs, she was finishing her last piece of work: Gathering all of the extra body parts she had come in contact with throughout her day (among them a liver, a bladder, a brain, and two hearts) and 'wrapping' them as a present for Sherlock. She knew it was a lost cause, but she felt better knowing that she might spare the detective a few hours of potentially maddening boredom.

"And what do we have here, Molly Hooper?" A low murmur from behind startled the pathologist and she gasped, whirled around, and bumped into the consulting detective standing just inches behind her. She stumbled, and he grabbed her shoulders to steady her as she regained her balance.

"Sherlock!" She began, scolding him. "You frightened me! Don't you know not to sneak up on someone in a _morgue?_"

He gave her a crooked half-smile and answered "I'm sorry," before again peering over her shoulder. "Is that a brain?" he asked curiously.

Molly blushed. "I... it's... it's for you," she managed to get out, holding the small cooler out to him. "I thought maybe you needed some more experiments to do, what with John being out of the flat and all."

Sherlock took the cooler from her, staring at it with interest. He lifted the lid and examined the contents, his features softening as he calculated the extra time his pathologist had spent assembling the gift. "Thank you, Molly," he said quietly.

They stood in comfortable silence, Molly still blushing fiercely. After a few minutes, Sherlock set the cooler down on the table behind them and turned to face his pathologist. "Molly," began the detective, _almost nervously,_ she thought. "Do you have anything in your schedule on June 16th?" Sherlock unconsciously held his breath as he waited for an answer.

"That's this Friday, isn't it?" Molly thought aloud. "No; no, I don't believe I do." Her heart fluttered as she smiled up at the detective looming over her. _Stay calm, Molly,_ she thought to herself. _It's probably just a case, nothing more._

"Would you accompany me to the Holmes' Gala? You would, of course, be required to wear formal attire and endure hours of boring millionaires endlessly prattling about their unfounded opinions on all sorts of things, but I think you'll enjoy yourself nonetheless." He gave Molly one of _those_ smiles, the ones that made her heart stop and her mind go blank for a full second.

When she could trust herself to speak, Molly answered him. "Of course," she said, smiling softly up at Sherlock. "I'd love to go! I'll have to get Mary to take me shopping, though," she added shyly.

"Perfect!" Sherlock positively beamed as he swooped down to give Molly a quick peck on the cheek. "I'll text you the details," he said over his shoulder, snatching up the cooler and heading for the morgue doors. "Oh, and Molly?" He paused, his hand resting on the door, and turned around to face her. "That braid is very becoming on you." The detective flashed his pathologist a quick grin before making his usual dramatic exit, barging out of the morgue while a stunned Molly simply stared after him.

Upon returning to 221B, Sherlock set the cooler down on the abused kitchen table, pulling out his mobile as he heard it emit a tiny beeping noise.

**Thank you. Mummy will be most pleased. MH**

**Piss off, brother mine. SH**

**Shall I tell her or would you rather inform her yourself? MH**

**PISS. OFF. SH**

Sherlock tossed his mobile onto the table, slipping his goggles on over his head of dark curls. He immediately set to work on his new present from Molly, never mind that it was already midnight. As he pulled out the giant gallon of formaldehyde from the 'Science' shelf in the fridge, the detective smiled to himself, dreaming up visions of the Friday evening to come as he dissected and burned and mixed to his (alive, beating, and _not_ covered in formaldehyde, thank you very much) heart's content.

_Enjoying the story so far? Don't forget to leave a review! (And thank you!)_

_~London Belle_


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Sherlock was startled awake from a light doze in his armchair to the sound of a new text coming in on his mobile.

**Hi, Sherlock! This is Mary. Molly and I are shopping for the Gala - what's the dress code? MW**

Sherlock grumbled something about common sense and sent a reply.

**Formal, black-tie. SH**

He sat back and pondered the thought of Molly and Mary shopping for the event. He wondered what color dress Molly would choose, and how she would do her hair. Five minutes later, he shook himself out of this train of thought, thoroughly disgusted with himself for wasting time on such unproductive daydreams. It doesn't matter anyway, thought the detective.

**Tell Molly I said hello. SH**

The instant he pressed send, Sherlock regretted the text. _Where did that even __come__ from?_ he thought in confusion. He stared at the tiny screen for a bit longer, then promptly set the mobile down on the coffee table before stepping over it to check on his latest bacteria.

**ooooo**

Mary Watson smiled down at her mobile. "What is it?" Molly asked her, trying to peek at the screen.

"Oh, nothing," replied Mary nonchalantly. "Sherlock said to tell you hello," she added, a smug smile spreading across her face.

A faint blush crept into Molly's cheeks. "So, um, where are we going, exactly?" She made an attempt to change the subject.

"Actually, right here," Mary pointed to the upscale boutique just a few doors down. "We're going shopping for that Gala!"

"Mary, I could have gone on my own," Molly protested as they entered the tiny store. Actually, she was a little inexperienced when it came to dress-shopping, and the entire concept was quite daunting.

"Nonsense," Mary responded emphatically. "And we're not leaving until we find you the perfect dress! Now, it's got to be something worthy of that madman's attention... Oh, Molly dear, you're going to be the belle of the entire ball!"

At this, the pathologist turned a rather peculiar shade of red, one that matched the first gown Mary selected for her to try on. The short frock was covered in a rather garish assortment of feathers, immediately planting the image of a frightful bird in Molly's head. "What do you think of this?" Mary asked.

"It's nice," Molly said quietly. "I think it's a bit... flashy... for me, though."

"I see," muttered Mary. "Well, what about this one?" She held up a floor-length silk gown in bright royal blue with a sprinkling of matching fabric flowers at the waist.

"Does it look a little long to you?" asked the pathologist. In fact, the dress was a good six inches too long, though it was rather lovely.

"Fine, fine," Mary placed the dress back on the rack. "Oh, Molly!" she squealed in excitement. "This one's absolutely to _die_ for! Come on, we are heading straight for the fitting rooms, no ifs, ands, or buts about it!" She dragged poor Molly to the back of the boutique, snatching up a pair of heels as she walked by the display before disappearing behind a navy blue velvet curtain.

**ooooo**

John Watson made his way up the steps of 221B, not bothering to knock as he made his way into the flat. Sure enough, Sherlock called a quick "Hello, John," from the kitchen as the ex-army doctor sat down in his beloved armchair.

"Hello, Sherlock," the doctor called back in response. He gazed around the flat, rather impressed that the detective had managed to keep the place relatively clean. _Either that, or Mrs. Hudson is a godsend,_ he thought to himself.

Sherlock came out into the living room to sit in his chair across from John, his hair a wild mess and his fingertips blackened with some sort of chemical substance. "Please tell me that's not toxic," John groaned.

"It isn't," replied Sherlock. "Just soot." He leaned back and tucked his dirty fingertips under his chin in his trademark thinking pose. "Have you come to talk about the Gala?" he asked his former flatmate.

"Right, as always," John replied with admiration and a bit of amusement. "Are-"

"I will be attending with Molly Hooper as my guest," interrupted the detective somewhat stiffly. "I assume Mycroft will be taking that personal assistant of his, Andrea or whatever her name is."

"Ah, I see," said the doctor. "Now, to get to-"

"Mycroft will undoubtedly arrange to transport us all to the event," Sherlock cut him off once again.

John grinned. "So what's got you in a mood today, hmm?"

"A mood? Who said I was in a mood, John?" The detective tried unsuccessfully to bluff his way out of John's observations.

"You're cutting me off, you're extremely wordy and formal, and you look as if someone has just confiscated your microscope. What's the matter, Sherlock?" The doctor leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped.

Sherlock sighed deeply, running a hand through his curls. "I'm going to fuck it up, John. There's just no possible way this night can pass without me being a stupid bastard, as always."

"Sherlock," began John. "I think we all know that no matter how much of a bastard you may be, you always apologize."

"I can't do that to Molly," responded the detective, a haunted look in his eyes. "I can't bear to see her hurt. GOD DAMN IT!" He roared, standing up abruptly and giving his curls a yank. "It's Mycroft, that bloody git! If he hadn't-"

"Sherlock!" John stood directly in front of the anguished detective. "You know how not to fuck things up. I'll make sure Mycroft and Anthea leave the two of you alone, I promise. As long as you can be civil to Molly, which I _know_ you can, nobody will be fucking anything up." Sherlock stared back at the doctor with a defeated look on his pale features. "Look," continued John. "You can be a gentleman when you want to be. All you have to do is tell her she looks pretty and make small talk. You're an accomplished dancer, so there's no need to worry there, and besides, you like her! You enjoy her company, Sherlock, so what else is there to worry about?" He smiled up at the detective, awaiting the taller man's response.

"John, that's just it," whispered Sherlock in a wrecked voice. "I _like_ her."

**ooooo**

"Mary, I can't do this," came a muffled voice from behind the curtain.

"Sure, you can!" Mary called back. "Nobody's here but me."

Molly poked her head around the heavy, dark blue fabric. "Promise?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die," answered Mary with a reassuring smile. "Now, come on, let's see you!"

Molly took a deep breath and stepped out of the fitting room. She gave a little twirl, and looked up to see Mary's jaw lying on the floor in front of her.

"Oh, I just _knew_ it was awful!" Molly looked as if she were about to cry.

"No, no!" said Mary emphatically. "It's... You look unbelievable, Molls!"

Molly's strapless dress was a pale ballet pink in color, with a _massive_ tulle skirt very unlike the shy pathologist. The sweetheart neckline was studded with large rhinestones, which also sparkled along the very top of the skirt. As the rhinestones continued down the tulle, they decreased in size, until the hem of the dress was lined with crystals that were just barely visible. Molly's heels were just high enough to peek out from under her skirt, and every inch of them was covered in rhinestones. Diamond drop earrings sparkled from underneath her hair while a diamond bracelet graced her wrist, altogether creating a vision that was... _almost_ perfect.

"One last finishing touch," Mary said, spinning Molly around to face the mirror. "Close your eyes," she instructed. "And don't move." Molly did as she was told, and ten minutes later, Mary announced, "There! You look like a proper princess - that silly detective is going to fall head over heels for you!"

Molly opened her eyes and gasped, a hand flying to cover her mouth while tears welled up in her eyes. Mary had fixed her hair into a bun on top of her head, and had finished the look with a diamond tiara.

"Oh, Mary!" Molly bent down a bit to hug her friend. "Now, I'm being ridiculous. All this fuss over _me_, and we haven't even bothered to find _you_ a dress!"

"No worries," Mary said with a smile. "I plucked a few options for me while you were getting yourself ready. I'll just be a minute," she called as she ducked behind the next curtain. "Take all the time you need!"

The pathologist looked at herself one last time in the mirror, smiling at a version of Molly Hooper she never even knew existed.

**ooooo**

_So, there you have it! I know we've all been waiting very patiently for Molly's dress, and I thank all of my readers for hanging in there! Your lovely praise has really motivated me to put surprises in every chapter - and I hope you'll agree that this one was no exception! Anyway, thank you all so much for reading, and please continue to review!_

_(To all of you Nosy Nellies out there, you'll see Mary's dress at the Gala, and not a second before!)_

_~London Belle_


	4. Chapter 4

Friday morning found Sherlock in a black sedan, uncomfortably seated next to Mycroft on their way to the Holmes mansion. John, Mary, and Molly followed behind in a second car, which was putting the detective in an increasingly sour mood as he stared out at the passing countryside. Mycroft sighed as his brother began furiously tapping away on his mobile.

"Oh, be quiet, Mycroft," spat the detective.

"Who, _me_?" asked Mycroft with a tone of fake astonishment. "Brother mine, I am _always_ quiet."

"You will be once I murder you," came the immediate response.

"Now, now, Sherlock, let's not start before we've even seen Mummy," Mycroft said playfully.

"Why not?" answered Sherlock. "Especially when we both know that Mummy always liked me-"

Both men were interrupted by text alerts from their mobiles. Two incredulous eyebrows were raised as two dark heads bent over two tiny screens. Sherlock's message was from Molly, while Mycroft's was from John.

**Behave yourself. I can see you, you know. MH**

**Leave him alone, Mycroft. We need him in a pleasant mood for the Gala (and for Molly). JW**

Sherlock twisted around in his seat. Sure enough, there was Molly Hooper, sitting in the passenger seat of the black car directly behind the Holmes brothers. She gave the detective a shy smile and a little wave. He smiled back, hesitated, then waved. Even from the back seat, Sherlock could tell Molly was blushing.

Neither brother spoke for the rest of the trip.

**ooooo**

Upon their arrival to the mansion, Mummy came to greet the entire party. To both of her sons' surprise, she was warm and even somewhat friendly, smiling and arranging for everyone's baggage to be brought to their rooms.

Once all had been successfully brought into the foyer, Amelia led a grand tour of the entire estate (which included a laboratory, a greenhouse, and a rather embarrassing trip to both of the boys' childhood bedrooms, among other things). As they wove in and out of corridors and chambers, Molly began to feel very, very small. This feeling intensified as they entered the ballroom, an enormous space with a huge marble staircase as the focal point.

"And here," Amelia paused, gesturing to the stairs, "is where the couples will be presented."

Molly's eyes widened as she whispered to Mary. "What does she mean, _presented_?"

Mary whispered back. "I think-" but was cut off by Amelia as she made another announcement.

"In order to ensure the success of tonight's event, we will now practice presentations. Mycroft, if you would be so kind as to call your lovely Anthea in from outside."

Mycroft smiled and sent a quick text to his personal assistant, who appeared next to him in a matter of minutes.

"The lady will begin at the top of the stairs, while the gentleman will wait for her at the bottom," Amelia narrated as the two took their places. "As the name of the couple is announced, the lady will begin to make her descent." Anthea picked up the hem of an imaginary skirt as she started towards Mycroft. "Ladies, please notice Anthea's impeccable technique," Amelia said as Anthea reached the bottom stair. "Finally, when the lady has reached her gentleman, he will escort her to their table." Mycroft extended his arm towards his personal assistant, who took it with a small smile as they walked to an imaginary table.

"See? Nothing to it!" Amelia finished with a smile. "John and Mary, would you like to go next?"

"Absolutely!" said John, moving to stand at the bottom.

As she watched, Molly became uneasy. The thought of descending stairs in a lavish ball gown while hundreds of people watched was scary, but doing so while _Sherlock_ watched? Well, that was downright terrifying.

Mary smiled at the pathologist while she practiced to reassure her, but it didn't seem to do any good. By the time Mary had reached John, Molly's face had gone completely devoid of all color.

"Lovely! You did very nicely, Mary, and John - well, John is always a gentleman, isn't he?" Amelia gushed. "Alright, Sherlock and Miss Hooper, are you ready?"

Sherlock, who had been silent throughout the entire ordeal, nodded. As Molly passed him to start at the top of the stairs, he murmured "Relax. Focus on me." She took a deep breath and nodded before turning around at the top step.

"Go ahead, Miss Hooper," Amelia encouraged her. Molly smiled weakly before looking at Sherlock. He gave her an almost imperceptible nod, and, hiking up her invisible skirt, the pathologist slowly made her way down the staircase.

The instant Molly took her first step, Sherlock managed to surprise the entire room (with the exception of Mycroft). His entire face lit up in a positively _elated_ grin, instantly erasing the pathologist's nerves. She couldn't help but smile back as she took his arm, finishing her "practice round" perfectly.

"Wonderful!" beamed Amelia. "I think we can all expect a flawless Gala tonight." She paused to glance at her watch, sighing. "Unfortunately, I have an appointment to attend to, so you are all free to go - just remember, you must be in your positions and ready to go by six o'clock." She promptly turned and left in the direction of the foyer, her prim heels clicking on the hard floor as she went.

Seeing as it was already four, Mycroft suggested that the entire party begin to prepare themselves, to which the guests heartily agreed. Amelia had split the group according to gender, so Mary, Molly, and Anthea headed up to the women's rooms while Mycroft, John, and Sherlock left for the men's.

**ooooo**

The three women convened in Molly's room, each carrying a large assortment of beauty products and accessories. While Anthea spread out in the attached bathroom, Mary sat down on the four-poster bed next to Molly, brushing her hair as she asked, "So, what was that all about downstairs?"

Molly blushed, slipping her earrings into each ear. "I don't know what you're talking about," she answered indignantly.

Mary sighed and rolled her eyes, reaching for the curling iron. "You know, with Sherlock? Come on, Molls, you can't pretend that nothing happened!"

"I'm not," said Molly. "I'm just... He just wanted to make me less nervous, that's all." She turned around so Mary could zip up her dress.

"I agree," Anthea was fashioning her hair into an elaborate up-do, and her eyes sparkled as she added, "But once he sees you in that dress..."

"You two are impossible!" Molly threw up her hands.

Mary giggled. "Not impossible, just right, and you know it!" She set to work on Molly's hair, twisting and pinning every strand into place. The pathologist sighed as she slipped on her bedazzled heels, wondering if those men were being as incorrigible as these women were.

**ooooo**

"John, hold still," Mycroft said, trying to fix John's bow tie.

"Sherlock, are you ready yet? You've been in there for over an hour!" John called in the direction of the locked bathroom door.

"Just a minute," came a muffled response.

"For heaven's sake, Sherlock, how long do you need to put on a damn tuxedo?" Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Shut up, you git," the detective replied.

Finally, the door opened. "There," said John. "Are we - Oh my God, what the hell has gotten into your _hair_, Sherlock?" The detective had attempted to tame his unruly curls with multiple kinds of product, resulting in a flat, frightening mop of grease with cowlicks poking up every which way.

Mycroft turned at John's surprise, and both eyebrows shot straight up into his hairline at the sight of his brother. He smiled, saying, "That, dear brother, is sure to win the heart of your Miss Hooper, though it's not what I would have chosen, myself."

"Piss off, you-"

"Okay, that's it, I've had just about enough!" John's shout stunned both brothers into silence. "You," he said, pointing to Mycroft, "Sit." He pointed to the bed, and Mycroft sat. "I don't want another word from you, understand?" He nodded. "And you," he turned now to the detective. "Get your sorry arse back in that bathroom." Sherlock followed the ex-army doctor to the sink, where he proceeded to rinse every last remnant of gel, powder, and spray out of the detective's hair. He grabbed a towel and roughly dried the dark curls before pushing Sherlock in front of the mirror.

"Okay," John huffed. "Now you listen here. You are not going to fuck this up, understand? I don't know what possessed you to go screwing with your hair in the first place, but it doesn't matter. It's... 5:45, so we're going downstairs in a few. And when we do, you are going to smile and be polite and talk to everyone your mother introduces you to, no matter how idiotic they are, because Molly will be waiting at the top of those damned stairs for you and you will not disappoint her. You will _not_ pull any kind of crap on me tonight, Sherlock Holmes. Do I make myself clear?" John stood with his arms crossed, patiently waiting for an answer.

Sherlock ran his hand through his hair and sighed. "Yes, John. Crystal."

"Good. Then let's get both of you bastards into that ballroom before you rip each other's throat out."

**ooooo**

_Some last-minute Gala preparations to build for next chapter. Fear not, dear readers - Chapter 5 will be posted tonight, as well! And yes, it's all Gala - no more suspense, I promise! (well, at least no more major suspense.)_

_Thank you all for your continued support and kind reviews. I would really love to hear feedback about this chapter in particular, as I think it's a bit different from the rest of the piece. _

_What are we most looking forward to in Chapter 5, hmm? :)_

_~London Belle_


	5. Chapter 5

Mary pulled Molly along behind her in the dark hallway. "Okay," she whispered. "This is where we wait until they call us."

Molly wrung her hands nervously. "Look at them," she said, motioning to the group of women in front of them. Each had a spectacularly detailed gown, and they were talking and laughing to each other as if the idea of being nervous had never even occurred to them.

"Oh, don't mind them," Mary said, tucking a stray piece of hair behind Molly's ear. "They're just expensive Barbie dolls, really."

"But they're so... confident," Molly murmured.

"Well, I imagine that's because they've done this sort of thing a million times before," Mary rolled her eyes. "But really, Molls, you're going to be amazing."

"You think so?" asked Molly, eyes glued to the velvet curtain separating them from the dreaded staircase.

Mary gently placed her hands on Molly's shoulders, turning the pathologist to face her. "I _know_ so," she said, then sighed. "Okay, you need a pep talk. What's on the other side of that curtain, Molls?"

"I don't know, a lot of people?" answered Molly.

"Yes, but who's out there among those people?" Mary prompted.

"John? Mycroft? Amelia?" Molly kept guessing.

Mary pressed her palm to her forehead in exasperation. "Oh my dear Lord, Molly. Do you need a _hint_?"

"Apparently I do," Molly said with a soft laugh.

"_Sherlock_. Sherlock is out there, Molls! And he's waiting for you, Miss Molly Hooper, to walk down _those_ stairs, right there." She pointed in the direction of the curtain as a muffled voice began to filter through the speakers. "You look drop-dead gorgeous, if you haven't figured that out already, and I think you'll find that a certain consulting detective will agree. So, when they call your name, you're going to push open that curtain like it's nobody's business and you're going to walk right down those stairs as if you own the place. And Sherlock?" Here, Mary giggled. "Well, if he doesn't keel right over the second he catches sight of you, I'll be terribly surprised."

Molly smiled, the tension leaving her features. She leaned down to hug Mary, saying, "Okay, I'll try. Thank you!" The voice outside announced the first couple, and her eyes widened as one of the girls in front of her pushed aside the curtain and stepped out to meet her partner.

Molly knew she and Mary were the last two to be presented, so she stayed back from the curtain to let the other girls pass before her. Soon, Anthea came to stand by them. She looked stunning in a solid black, one-shouldered, floor-length silk gown. Tiny silk flowers began at the shoulder and increased in size, cascading down the front until large rosettes rested against the skirt's hem. Finished with black peep-toe heels, a twisted up-do with a wide, black headband, and black filigree earrings, Mycroft's PA was elegant in a classic, sophisticated kind of way.

"Are you two ready?" She asked, smiling at both women.

"Anthea!" Molly gasped. "You look incredible!"

"Thank you," Anthea replied, always the epitome of calm. "Now, if you'll come with me, I believe there are only two couples left until us."

They approached the curtain, Anthea smiling as the speakers announced her name. "I'll meet you at the bottom," she said, making eye contact with Molly. "You're going to be fine." And with that, she disappeared through the curtain.

**ooooo**

Mycroft, John, and Sherlock were all seated at the same table, each anxious with anticipation. They watched as each couple was announced, excitement and nerves growing, especially for a certain consulting detective. Finally, when it was Mycroft's turn to stand at the bottom of the stairs, John smiled and gave him a tiny salute. Sherlock simply inclined his chin, earning him a swift jab from John's elbow. The detective grudgingly offered a pained smile, which only made Mycroft grin. _That utter bastard,_ thought Sherlock bitterly. "Shut up," muttered John.

Then, Anthea opened the curtain, and Mycroft Holmes suddenly lost all composure and blanched.

Yes, he had taken his personal assistant to numerous events before. Anthea had attended garden parties, charity balls, and even previous Holmes' Galas, so she and Mycroft were both adepts at the formalities involved. Why, then, was Mycroft instantly overwhelmed?

His mind began running off questions at a mile a minute as Anthea started down the stairs. Was he standing straight enough? Shite, he had forgotten to check his bow tie upstairs, hadn't he? He couldn't even remember if he had shaved or not - damn it all to hell.

Finally, she stood next to him, and at least he had enough sense to slip an arm around her waist. "Mycroft," she said softly. "You might want to close your mouth. People are staring." She reached up to close it for him, and that's when Mycroft Holmes realized that he had, in fact, let his jaw drop.

They returned to the table, where Sherlock was sitting with his eyebrows drawn up into his hairline.

"Brother mine, I really must congratulate you on your rather spectacular-" The detective was cut off before he could finish.

"Sherlock, shut the hell up." A slightly tense John stood up and left the table, taking a deep breath. Then Mary appeared, and the doctor was speechless.

Mary's dress was navy blue with a mermaid silhouette and a small plunge neckline, featuring a layered silk skirt beginning just below her waist. A wide band of rhinestones encircled the dress's umpire waistline, while a few additional crystals were scattered across the skirt's hem. Mary's hair was curled and tucked up, and her diamond stud earrings sparkled under the lights. A pair of navy heels with a cluster of rhinestones over the toes completed her ensemble.

When Mary took her husband's arm, he leaned over to whisper "Stunning," in her ear. She laughed quietly, saying, "You don't look too bad yourself," which made John smile with pride.

"Off you go, brother dearest," Mycroft said to Sherlock with a smile. The detective bit back about a dozen witty responses, instead ignoring his brother and slowly walking to the staircase.

As he passed John and Mary on their way to the table, Mary said, "Try not to let your jaw sit on the floor forever, Detective." John just smiled at him. Sherlock nodded curtly in response before moving to stand in position.

Over the speakers, a voice said, _"Announcing Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Miss Molly Hooper,"_ and suddenly there was his pathologist, smiling right at him.

Sherlock froze.

His jaw did indeed hit the floor, as did the mandibles of almost every male in the entire room, but Molly only had eyes for her consulting detective. She was ethereal as she descended, and when she finally stood next to him, all he could do was stare. "Um, Sherlock?" Molly whispered as quietly as she could. The detective was snapped back into reality, placing an arm around her waist to escort her to their table.

"Molly, you look... Exquisite," was all Sherlock could manage to say.

"Thank you," replied Molly softly. "Love the bow tie, though it's crooked, you know." She reached up to pull at it, smiling at him as she did so.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile back.

**ooooo**

_I think our Gala is off to a rather lovely start, don't you?_

_Please continue to review, and thank you so much for reading!_

_~London Belle_


	6. Chapter 6

The next hour was extremely boring (even Anthea thought so), consisting only of Amelia's thanks towards every couple who had attended. It dragged on and on, punctuated only by the occasional whispered remark from either Mycroft or Sherlock, who made it a contest to see which brother could produce the most clever comment. The entire table tried very hard not to laugh, but in the end it was John who giggled first, after Sherlock suggested that Mummy ought to have chosen a dress that made her look less like one of Mycroft's goldfish.

Finally, _finally_, the dreadful introductions were over, which meant that the dancing could begin. Mummy had, of course, hired a small string ensemble to provide live music, and Molly almost had to physically restrain Sherlock so that he would not march over to the violinist and wrestle the instrument from his ("INCAPABLE, I mean, really, he's simply _butchering_ the good name of Beethoven!") hands.

"Sherlock, you can show me when we get back to Baker Street, okay?" Molly coaxed sweetly. "You know how much I love to listen to you play."

"But just _listen_ to him! I can tell you from across the room that he's clearly not experienced in vibrato technique-" A quick peck on the cheek and a tiny smile from his pathologist stopped him short. "Fine," he grumbled. "But don't be upset when I'm tone deaf from that horrifically tuned E string."

"Coming, Sherlock?" John called over his shoulder. The doctor and the other three were already halfway onto the floor.

The detective straightened up and ran a hand through his curls, sighing. He was not about to let Mycroft show him up on the dance floor, and besides, he happened to like dancing, thank you very much. "Well, Molly?" he asked, offering his arm expectantly. "Shall we?"

She hesitated, stammering, "Ah, well, maybe, but I'd really much rather-" Molly gave up, accepting her defeat. "I can't dance, Sherlock," she confessed, cringing just the slightest bit as she expected a disappointed or even angry response from the detective.

"Nonsense," he scoffed with a wave of his hand. He pulled her onto the floor, eyeing Mycroft as he twirled Anthea. Molly tried to protest, but relented once she caught sight of the sheer determination in his eyes. "All you have to do is follow me. Promise," he added softly after seeing her look of skepticism.

Molly took a deep breath. "Okay," she said nervously, resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her waist. They began a slow waltz, the detective easily leading the pathologist in time to the sonata reverberating from the cello. She smiled, glancing down at their feet - were those really hers?

"You're doing remarkably well, for someone who claims they can't dance," murmured Sherlock gently in her ear. Suddenly, he dipped her with a flourish, and she gasped. When at last he pulled her upright again, she fell forward against his chest, slightly stunned. "See? I promised, didn't I?" The detective grinned down at his pathologist and she laughed, looking more radiant than he had seen her in months.

"You did, but you said nothing about fancy ballroom stunts!" Molly scolded, tucking a stray curl back into place.

Sherlock continued to smile at her, pulling himself for a brief moment into his mind palace. He wandered into Molly's room, reflecting on the night so far. She had been so incredibly beautiful the first time he had seen her on the stairs, and now here she was, safe in his arms, _his_ pathologist.

His Molly.

After Moriarty, he had vowed to protect her, at all costs. He now stopped by the morgue twice daily, if he could, and if he couldn't, he texted her. He invited her on cases much more often (especially since John had married Mary), and he even took her out to lunch or to dinner some days.

_When had he become so enamored with her?_ he wondered. He supposed it didn't really matter much at the moment; what he was most concerned about was whether or not she cared for him, as well. But what would he do if she did not? Better yet, what would _she_ do if she did not?

The consulting detective began to doubt himself, a feeling which he absolutely despised. Doubt led to insecurity as he ran through scenario after scenario. What if he hurt her? He could never live with himself. Why had he thought for a minute that he was good enough for her, anyway? He envisioned the worst possible outcomes, scenes of Molly fleeing to hail a cab, tears running down her face. Scenes of her slapping him, telling him she never wanted to see him again. Scenes of her _leaving_ him...

Sherlock returned to reality to find Molly still smiling sweetly up at him, and, in spite of everything he had just shown himself inside that terrible mind palace of his, he gently cupped her lovely face between his palms and bent down to kiss her.

Quite frankly, Molly was too surprised to even breathe, and so she didn't. Her arms did, however, fling themselves around the neck of a certain consulting detective while she raised herself up onto her toes.

As he kissed her, Sherlock realized the true extent of his idiocy. Of course, she would stay. Molly Hooper had always stayed for him before, she would always stay for him now, and he was utterly blind to have ever thought otherwise. When was he going to learn?

Sherlock pulled away first, eyes locked on his Molly and her spectacular crimson blush.

Meanwhile, unnoticed by our adorable couple, the entire ballroom around them had fallen deathly silent - even the tiny orchestra had ceased playing. But Molly, even mortified as she now was upon realizing this, could not help but giggle nervously at the rather remarkable flush beginning to heat her detective's pale cheeks.

Mycroft may always have to put up with Sherlock. The most powerful man in the hemisphere may always protect him, help him, and stay by his side, but Mycroft Holmes will never, ever miss the chance to embarrass his little Lock in front of a crowd. Ever. Which is why the man who is the British Government immediately began to clap. And as the entire ballroom full of affluent guests joined him, Mycroft looked directly at his psychotic sociopath of a brother and smiled. Not a malicious smile, but certainly not an entirely benign one, either, earning him a colossal, murderous glare from his (now throughly humiliated, but you didn't hear that from him) detective.

"Oh, my God, Sherlock," whispered Molly, her voice frantic and panicky.

"I know," muttered Sherlock in response, wrapping an arm around his pathologist's waist. "Smile and curtsy, that's all you can do." True to his word, he bowed, and she curtsied, both wishing from the very bottom of their hearts to be absolutely anywhere in the world but in that damned ballroom at that particular moment in time.

**ooooo**

_A little bit of fluff and insecurity overload on this one :) Sorry - I just couldn't help myself!_

_Thank you so very, very much to everyone who has left me such kind reviews. Your continued support never fails to amaze me!_

_Unfortunately, Spring Break has ended, which means less frequent updating :( This week in particular is going to be a very crazy one for me, but I'll do my best to have the next chapter out soon! Thank you in advance for your patience._

_~London Belle_


	7. Chapter 7

Amelia needed to move this gala along, and fast. After her original appalled disdain at the thoroughly uncouth behavior of both of her sons had worn off, she had decided it was best to end the dancing for that night and move on to dinner. She quietly rushed over to the orchestra to inquire if they might kindly provide suitable background music for the remainder of the night. As they began to play a soft piece reminiscent of elevator music, Amelia took it upon herself to drag a reluctant Mycroft away from the table (more specifically, from Anthea) and into the outside corridor.

"Damn it, Mycroft Holmes!" whispered his mother, her tone strained. "How the hell am I to keep this gala going after that little performance? Between you and that brother of yours, this entire mess will now be broadcasted over a very expansive network of high society aristocrats, and for what? To ruin my damned reputation, I'll tell you what! So let me explain something to you right now, Mister I-Am-The-British-Government. If you can't pull yourself together for the remainder of this event, then you can very well expect _hell_ to be frozen over tomorrow morning! And furthermore, I expect you to act with the full seven years' maturity I have so graciously gifted you over your idiot brother, who is not exempt from this horrendous debacle either, might I add." She paused, took a deep breath, and sighed heavily.

It takes quite a lot to shock Mycroft Holmes. After all, the man _is_ the British Government, even his mother apparently knows that, and as such he has seen some very strange things. He's encountered severed heads in old refrigerators, potentially toxic chemical experiments lying in his shoes, and even discovered mold in - well, we won't get into that one. He has dealt with the rudest and most infuriating people on the planet, and he has even accepted the occasional fieldwork challenge. To put it briefly, Mycroft Holmes has been through enough to make him virtually un-shockable at this point in his life. But just when Mycroft thought he'd seen it all... There was Mummy, _swearing at him._

Mycroft, who always was (and always will be, despite anything Sherlock may try to tell you) the favorite child. Mycroft, who had always done anything and everything for Mummy, from accompanying her to Les Miserables to planning her truly miserable soiree. Mycroft, who embodied the Queen of England and all of her government, was being scolded like a naughty five-year-old.

He stared at his mother, standing there in front of him with her arms crossed, and attempted speech.

"Of course, Mummy," he managed, "But-"

"No 'buts', Mycroft. Now, as elated as I am that your brother has finally found a female with which he finds himself compatible, I need you to keep him in check by whatever means necessary. Lock him out of the ballroom if you must, but the next few hours _will_ pass uneventfully. Understood?"

Mycroft sighed. Couldn't he enjoy one night away from work? Just _one_? Did he _always_ have to be following people around and keeping everyone out of trouble?

"Yes, Mummy, understood," he grumbled.

Amelia smiled wanly and straightened, her usual air of composure returning. "Good. If you'll excuse me, it seems I have a great deal of socializing to catch up on." She turned and briskly left him standing there in the corridor.

Mycroft blinked in silence before straightening his jacket. When he reentered the ballroom, he made note of a languid detective sitting next to an animated pathologist, in the company of an ex-army surgeon and his wife. All was well with the world.

**ooooo**

Sherlock paid no attention to his brother's abrupt absence or to the untouched plate of food in front of him; he was much more focused on observing Molly, who was enthusiastically discussing the coagulation of stomach acid with John.

"Don't you think so, Sherlock?" she asked, turning to him.

"Hmm?" He sipped his champagne.

"Well, John and I were debating whether or not stomach acid retains its corrosive properties in the hours following coagulation. Did you have an opinion on the subject?" she smiled, patiently waiting for an answer.

"I've never experimented with it," Sherlock replied casually. "But I'd venture to guess that yes, the acid would still be quite corrosive."

Molly beamed at John. "You see? I knew it!" she exclaimed before rolling her eyes at the detective. "And he thought he could argue bodily fluids with a pathologist," she shook her head.

John laughed, while Mary picked up her wine. "Can't we talk about something else? All you three do is experiment and ooze!" she begged.

"Actually, I believe dessert is on its way out," drawled Sherlock in his lazy baritone as plates were whisked away, to be replaced by towering stacks of tiramisu.

Enter Mycroft, a sour look on his face as he pulled out his chair beside Anthea, who had been quiet all through dinner. "Is everything okay?" she whispered.

"Don't worry, my dear, just my arse of a brother and his _delightful_ production," replied Mycroft, carefully placing a tight smile on his drawn features. Anthea nodded, gently patting his arm.

"Do you need me to take care of it?" she asked.

"Absolutely not," Mycroft responded firmly. "He just needs to be watched, as always. Mummy's orders."

She frowned as he ordered a brandy but didn't press further, aware of Amelia's tendency to rely on her eldest son whenever Sherlock was involved.

After the tiramisu, the detective frowned, watching as guests slowly drifted onto the empty floor. Mycroft caught his brother before he even opened his mouth, a habit of his that annoyed Sherlock to no end. "Brother mine, I'm afraid you must."

Sherlock sent his brother a withering glare before groaning, "Why can't we leave early?" in his usual, childish tone.

"You know perfectly well why," answered Mycroft, standing with Anthea. "Now _go_."

The detective stood reluctantly, causing Molly to frown in confusion. "Go where?"

Sherlock scowled. "_Socializing_." He looked down at his sitting pathologist, and his expression softened. "Will you come?"

"Only if you promise to be civil," came the response. He laughed, pulling out her chair and offering his arm.

"Molly Hooper, as long as somebody intelligent is there to save me from the mindless chattering these expensive imbeciles tend to enjoy, I'll be as civil as dear Mycroft." This accompanied by a sly smirk in his brother's direction.

Molly just rolled her eyes, gently tugging in the direction of the closest clique. "Alright, you, leave your poor brother alone. Come on, these people look nice."

Sherlock smiled, and as they floated from group to group, he found himself willingly participating in mildly interesting conversations with other guests. He might even have said he wasn't completely bored by all of them, but then he'd be lying, wouldn't he?

**ooooo**

_Thank you so, so, SO much to everyone who has left such kind reviews! I am astonished at the sheer amount of devoted fans this piece has accumulated, and I truly appreciate the lovely support!_

_That being said, we're preparing for an ending with the next chapter or two, but I'm considering creating a sequel. Thoughts?_

_~London Belle_


	8. Chapter 8

Midnight came and went, and Molly was beginning to feel tired. Sherlock watched as she stifled a yawn, frowning. "Excuse us," he said politely to the couple they had been conversing with, pulling Molly close to him as they approached Mycroft. "Brother mine," began the detective, "I believe the time has come for Molly and I to depart."

Mycroft turned, about to insist they stay, when an idea pushed its way to the front of his mind. _Sherlock will not be my responsibility if he leaves_, the man who is the British Government thought to himself. _I can simply tell Mummy he's left and be done with him! Besides, that poor woman does look rather exhausted... Then again, I suppose anyone left in Sherlock's company for such an extent of time would be._

He smiled, his tone light and pleasant. "Yes, of course. It was so lovely to see you, Miss Hooper. Shall I arrange for a car to take you home?"

Molly scrambled to apologize, feeling a slight flush rise to her cheeks. "Oh, no, really, I'm fine. It would be rude to leave before-"

"Nonsense," both Holmes' replied in unison. Sherlock tried his absolute best not to give Mycroft a swift blow to the jaw, seeing as it might ruin his lovely evening with his lovely pathologist. He settled for a death glare instead, becoming even more annoyed when he noticed Mycroft's smug smirk.

"I insist," added the detective, and his concerned expression erased any arguments Molly could have come up with.

"Then it's settled," Mycroft sent a quick text from his mobile. "There will be a car waiting for you outside in ten minutes. Good evening, Miss Hooper. Sherlock," he nodded with a slight bow.

Sherlock felt the slight nudge of Molly's elbow. "Thank you, Mycroft," the detective managed to spit out before guiding her towards John and Mary, who were chatting amiably with a few guests.

When Mary spotted the approaching couple, she waved frantically, mouthing 'Save me!'. Upon discovering the nature of her friend's discomfort, Molly rolled her eyes. "You have to help me," Mary whispered. "They've been arguing about brain matter for over half an hour now!"

Molly sighed, unraveling herself from Sherlock in order to interrupt John, who had found yet another doctor to argue the topic with. "Actually," she began, tapping John on the shoulder lightly, "The matter takes three days to fully decompose, and yes, each half of the brain deteriorates at a slightly different rate. I should know; I deal with corpses on a daily basis." She smiled brightly at the men, who were all left dumbfounded. "We just wanted to say good night before we headed back to London," Molly said, which snapped John back to attention.

"Oh, okay," he laughed. "Well, good night, Molly Hooper," he replied, hugging her. "You know, I'm so proud of you - you really were phenomenal!" The doctor whispered before letting her go. Molly blushed in response with a quick "Thank you," as she could see Sherlock's obvious jealousy from a mile away.

"And good night to you, Sherlock," nodded the doctor.

The two managed to slip out of the ballroom without drawing Mummy's attention, which relieved the detective greatly. As promised, Mycroft's usual black sedan was parked in front of the manor, waiting for them, and Sherlock rushed to open the door for Molly. She giggled. "Which one?" she whispered, gazing up at the Holmes' mansion in slight awe.

"Third floor, second from the left," he muttered in response, smiling up at Mummy and even waving to her before sliding in next to his pathologist. "Baker Street, please," he called to the driver, and they started the three hour drive back to London.

**ooooo**

Sherlock watched the nighttime scenery pass as the minutes slipped by, lost in his thoughts. He was delighted with the success of the entire evening, but he was unsure whether Molly felt the same. He knew he had embarrassed her in front of a large crowd of people (even though he hadn't meant to), and he wasn't sure if he could ever forgive himself for humiliating her so. He glanced over at her, but she seemed equally distracted, so he turned once more to the lonely road.

Molly blushed to herself, eternally grateful for the cover of night in the backseat of the car as she replayed the evening in her head. She still could not wrap her head around most of what had happened, and she wondered if the detective sitting next to her had actually meant any of it. Though she doubted it, a tiny voice in the back of her mind suggested otherwise. _This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about,_ she scolded herself. _You know you're hoping in vain. _Still, she just couldn't get over the memory of him holding her tightly, waltzing for what seemed like days on end.

Working up her confidence, Molly took a deep breath. _A thank you. Just a thank you, that's all_, she told herself.

"I, um, wanted to thank you, Sherlock," a shy voice startled the detective.

"For what?" he turned to Molly, surprised.

"For inviting me... for bringing me... for tonight, _obviously_," she smiled, especially emphasizing his favorite expression with dramatic flair.

He grinned in response. "Mycroft had originally suggested Janine, but she's duller than a corpse in the morgue."

"Mind your manners," Molly chided him playfully. "Besides, I think she's pleasant enough."

"Pleasant, sure. Personally, I prefer intelligence and personality over pleasant."

Molly's eyes widened. "_Personality_? Since when does the great Sherlock Holmes care about _personality_?"

He thought for a long while before answering. "Since-" But Molly was already fast asleep, a small smile gracing her moonlit features.

Just then, Sherlock felt his pocket buzz. Pulling out his mobile, he opened up a new text message from John.

**Just thought I'd mention that now would be a good time to tell her. Don't overthink it. I know Molly, and I know you, and so I know you've absolutely NOTHING to worry about.**

**I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes. JW**

The detective smiled, studying his Molly, her head now resting on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her tiny figure, pulling her to him as a soft sigh escaped her lips.

His confidence boosted a thousand fold by John's reassurance, Sherlock made up his mind right then and there, nervous as he was about anything (and everything) that could go wrong in the process. Bending his head towards her, he gently pressed his lips to her forehead. In a low, soft voice, he murmured, "I love you, Molly Hooper."

Opening her eyes, Molly replied, "And I love you, Sherlock Holmes." She smiled, placing a gentle hand on her detective's cheek as he kissed her again, for the second time that night.

It was then that the detective realized he would never let his pathologist go again.

It was then that the pathologist realized she would never let her detective go again.

And it was John Watson's smile that could light up all of London as he read his newest text message:

**Made it to Baker Street safely. Thank you for everything, John Watson. She said yes.**

**SH**

**ooooo**

_And that, dear readers, is the end! I'm terribly sorry about the slow update, but it is here at last!_

_Thank you so, so, SO much to each and every one who left such kind reviews. It means the world to me to have such an amazing support network!_

_I sincerely hope you've enjoyed this piece, and you can expect a new (short) bit to be up soon._

_May you never, EVER be dressed like Mycroft's goldfish,_

_~London Belle_


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